Tattooed in Moonlight

Prologue

Prologue

Vacations are supposed to be peaceful. Mine felt like an escape plan drafted by three different committees and stamped with fifty layers of approval.

My manager's committee: "Kaira, you've been working non-stop for a year—you'll collapse. You need a break. Think spas, think sleep, think anything but cameras."

My father's committee: "Kaira, keep a low profile. You are the daughter of the president of the Republic of the Philippines, not a runaway heiress. Do not give the press reason to speculate."

The imaginary committee in my head, made up of every headline I've ever read: "Superstar Kaira Chaves seen boarding a flight: secret lover? secret rehab? secret baby?"

So yes, I booked a vacation. Singapore. Penthouse suite. Javierres International. Because if you're going to rebel against the prison of your own fame, you may as well do it wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets with skyline views.

When I stepped into the suite, I stopped at the door and actually laughed. "Oh my God. I'm in his hotel."

His being Travis Javierres. The man who owns skyscrapers the way people collect stamps. Hotels in Tokyo, Macau, Seoul, Dubai, Manila—basically, every city that sparkles at night has his name carved into its skyline.

And now, here I was. Walking barefoot on his polished marble floors. Setting my luggage on his imported leather bench. Sinking into his ridiculously oversized couch. Drinking his complimentary wine.

For someone who's spent half her life pretending in front of cameras, I don't shock easily. But being in this space felt unreal. Like I'd accidentally wandered into a billionaire's Pinterest board and no one had kicked me out yet.

Of course, my brain immediately jumped to logistics. Does he even know how many hotels he owns? Does he ever stay in one? Does he just wake up and say, 'I think I'll have breakfast in my Bangkok property today'? The thought was absurd. Men like Travis Javierres didn't "stay" in hotels. They built them, owned them, probably moved on to planning colonies on Mars while the rest of us struggled to book a decent Airbnb.

I poured myself a glass of red wine and tried to remind myself why I was here. Rest. Relaxation. Silence. Three words my life had basically blacklisted.

But peace didn't last long. The television, left on for background noise, suddenly pulled me in. A press conference. The kind with too many flashing cameras, too many microphones shoved toward one man.

That man being Travis Javierres.

I'd seen pictures of him before, of course. Magazine spreads, business features, those candid shots where he always looks like he's walking away from an explosion in slow motion. But seeing him live on screen was... different.

He didn't look like a man used to begging for attention. He looked like attention bent toward him automatically. His suit was simple but perfect, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp. The kind of man who doesn't bother with charm because authority is already stitched into his bones.

And then he spoke.

"I will only marry the person who sees my tattoo."

That was it. No preamble, no explanation. Just dropped it into the world like it was the weather forecast.

For a second, even the press froze. Then chaos. Reporters yelling, women screaming, hashtags exploding in real time. The world collectively lost its mind.

And Travis? He just stood there. Like he'd planned the chaos, lit the match, and calmly watched the fire spread.

I nearly spat my wine. "What? Did this man just turn his dating life into a Marvel side quest?"